In the tradition started by Reya about three years ago, and continued this year by Oak, we offer poetry to Brigid, who takes time off from the forge in order to read it all. She's drinking stewed tea, I'm pretty sure; if you can feel the enamel come off your teeth while you drink it, it's strong enough. When she's done being in charge of smithcraft and poetry, she takes over healing; that's when she fixes your teeth. Excellent goddess. I'm proud to belong to her.
Here's my offering; I wrote it last winter in honor of Freyja. (Brigid doesn't mind; she's one of those generous sorts of deities.)
The Dead of Valhalla
Listen! We have heard
the bravest of warriors, dead
after battle, line the walls
of Valhalla, renowned on benches,
mead-drunk, rest after work,
the harp song telling how
they were chosen by Odin,
All-Father, Wise One. Unbending,
they were not quick to falter, battle-wolves.
Now they are served by Valkyries.
Yes. But there's more.
They are second-best,
the left-overs. Freyja
chooses first, and if the
wise takes the brave,
whom does love choose?
We have not heard. And what
her dead do in the hall of love
we have not heard.
But the brave
line the walls of Valhalla,
lauded, praised,
wondering what the hell they did wrong.
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6 comments:
Ooooo! I have chills all over from this! Thank you, and brightest blessings of Brighid to you, dearest Pandora!
blessed Imbolc, I love the poem:)
amber in england
thank you, thank you, thank you! oh, and the boy turned 16 the other day and i told him once again the story of his birth and who was there. Thank you.
OMG! Pandora. This poem is, well, perfect in every way. Yeah, what the hell DID those guys do wrong?
love to you!
Lovely Pandora, thank you.
Pandora Bots an opportunity to create, uh, well, just what are these things...
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